


My Hands Are At Your Throat; I Think I Hate You

by Elise_Davidson



Series: 40 Snapshots [9]
Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: 21. Enemies, 40 Snapshots, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 10:19:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7711267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elise_Davidson/pseuds/Elise_Davidson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young tries to re-establish trust.  Rush is having little of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Hands Are At Your Throat; I Think I Hate You

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to LegacySoulReaver for input and a quick glance-over. Any remaining mistakes are my own. The next prompt, 22, is recommended and the next in the series.
> 
> Edited 8/8/16 to clear up some contextual aspects and fix some typos.

21\. Enemies

His dreams were red and gray like the dust of a long-forgotten planet that didn’t bear considering anymore. His nightmares were blue and watery, stuck within seas of pressure that threatened to crush him until he couldn’t feel anymore. The night terrors were the worst—all he could see were wide blue eyes dying slowly beneath his hand, a skinny frail frame shuddering to nothing beneath his fist, dust and dirt clouding everything between redemption and condemnation.

Young woke with a start, fingers clutched in the sheets and sweat breaking over his skin. It itched, and he turned over in bed in an attempt to dispel the images.

It didn’t work.

Stasis was coming pretty damn soon, and Young couldn’t sleep. He figured it’d be okay, seeing as there was about to be two to three years of “sleep” coming very shortly. He wandered the corridors of Destiny, his fingers tracing along the odd, metallic halls. It was alien in a way he couldn’t readily define, and it was one he wasn’t ready to categorize either.

It was how he found Rush, nearly two hours later, still awake with narrow fingers running over delicate circuitry work and cords and fibers. Rush barely acknowledged his presence, absorbed more with the physical work than who was passing by.

“You think we’re gonna survive this?” Young asked quietly.

Rush didn’t appear to have even noticed the question; his eyes remained fixed on the work in front of him. He put one tool down, his hand feeling for another, just as Young pressed it into his hand. Rush grunted an acknowledgement as he dug back in.

Young wasn’t sure that Rush would ever answer him right up until Rush backed away from the console, bracketing the panel back where it belonged. “I don’t think it matters what I think, Colonel.”

“How’s that?” Young scoffed.

“Either we survive or we don’t; we won’t realize it unless we wake up in a new galaxy.”

It was harsh but uniquely Rush. “That’s your expert opinion then.”

Rush threw his tool back into the bag beside of his feet. “What do you want from me, Colonel? There’s only two possible outcomes here.”

And just like that, Young was back in his nightmare, watching bodies crumble to dust, eyes turn to darkness, lips falling slack with death. He shrank in to himself, though he was certain Rush didn’t notice. He crossed his arms and turned away.

“Either we make it or we don’t then,” Young responded, sounding as if he believed they wouldn’t.

Rush offered little comfort. “Precisely.” He knelt to the floor and began cleaning up tools, mindless of the grease and dirt that marred his fingers, face, and neck.

Young watched, mostly because he didn’t feel Rush would notice and because he wanted to. He still wasn’t sure that Rush understood that Young was onboard for Destiny’s ultimate mission, Destiny’s endgame. Young wasn’t entirely certain that Rush knew he was in it for the long haul. He knelt beside of Rush, someone he had originally considered his enemy, to help pack up the various tools lying about.

Their hands bumped together, a tension building that Young couldn’t identify. “If it works?” he asked quietly, needing to know where he and Rush stood if things went as planned.

Rush regarded him for a long moment, perhaps more than a minute, before he responded. “If it works, we’ll wake up to Eli getting us out of the pods in a new galaxy that, with any luck, isn’t actively trying to destroy everything we’re attempting to accomplish.”

“And you and me?” Young hated the way his breath caught and hitched.

Rush didn’t seem to hear, or, if he did, he didn’t specify that he had. “Old enemies and that—it’s old hat now, isn’t it?”

That was as much acceptance and trust as he was ever going to get from Rush, Young thought. They had been bitter enemies at one point, but even Young recognized a hatchet being thrown.

Well, Young could throw it down with the best. “So you’re not going to hide anymore then?”

Rush looked startled briefly before his face shut down. “You going to try and kill me again?”

Young inhaled too sharply, choking on his spit. It was several minutes and with Rush pounding on his back before he could speak again. “No…I’m not going to try again, so long as we can stay on the same page—we’re in this for the long way round.”

Rush’s hand didn’t leave his back, clever fingers splayed over Young’s shoulder blades. “I don’t want to be your enemy.”

Young wasn’t sure why, but he knew (in his head) that Rush had never been the real enemy—he had only been available to blame. He clasped his hands on his knees, knelt in the floor beside of Rush, and didn’t shake Rush’s hand away when he should have.

Rush’s thumb stroked over the sharp line of bone in his back and Young’s breath cracked again.

Enemies indeed.

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End file.
